


Limitations.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Insecurity, Light Angst, M/M, VERY MUSHY I AM WARNING YOU, so much of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 03:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10296179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: “Harold,” John laughed. “Do you really think I don’t find you attractive?"Or the one where Harold has some doubts about their relationship and John lets him know how ridiculous they are.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InadvertentlyRomantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InadvertentlyRomantic/gifts).



> A VERY VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU DEAR. This is a day late, I am so sorry, but I hope you enjoy reading it.

John bent forward and tilted some more scotch into the two glass tumblers lying on the table. Nudging one of them a little to the left, he picked the other one and relaxes into the couch again, sighing. Beside him, Harold hummed in appreciated and picked up his glass, taking a sip. In front of them, on the TV screen James Bond was defying laws of gravity as he chased a group of terrorists on motorbikes, on rooftops.

They were both sitting in John’s loft, relaxing after a week of saving Numbers and very little sleep. They were too tired for any real entertainment, hardly getting any down time in between the missions. So when they finally got a break, they both unanimously decided on having dinner together. From there it degenerated into watching bad action films together- courtesy of John- and drinking expensive alcohol- courtesy of Finch.

By now, John was feeling slightly fuzzy around the edges, pleasantly cozy and content. He didn’t want to move. He felt at home, with smell of home cooked meal still permeating the air and the warmth of Harold’s body beside him. He sighed into his glass again, as he sipped.

In front of them, Daniel Craig did another science defying stunt. John could actually sense Harold’s disapproval, without even needing to glance his way. Soon enough, his partner cleared his throat. “Mr. Reese?”

John hid his smile in another sip, before looking at Harold innocently, “Finch,” he acknowledged.

“Please tell me your life as an operative wasn’t quite as exciting as Mr. Bond’s is.”

John felt loose limbed, relaxed, so it took him by surprise how that comment made a laugh bubble out of his throat, and fondness seep into his core.

“Well Finch, I would say I am as similar to Bond as an assassin as you are to Q as a computer genius.”

Harold snorted at that comment, and John looked at him, how he was smiling slightly, his guard down. Foolishly, he felt himself drawn closer.

“Absolutely dissimilar then,” Harold concluded.

“Absolutely.” John agreed, and all of a sudden, Harold’s face was right in front of his. He hadn’t even registered moving closer.

“Mr. Reese.” Harold was quiet now, not startled, but there as a question in his voice.

“Harold,” he answered, hushed. He was asking for something, but was too uncertain as to what. Too uncertain if it was even allowed.

Harold’s eyes dipped down to his lips, and suddenly he knew. He ought to have been alarmed. He was showing too much. But Finch wasn’t disgusted. Instead, he looked so soft, his eyes shining with anticipation- not apprehension.

“John…” Harold breathed, and John could feel his breath on his lips. Taste it. It smelled faintly of alcohol and the apple pie they had after dinner. It felt like permission.

Instinctively, he moved even closer, still expecting Harold to move back. Instead, to his sheer exhilaration, the genius moved forward, pressing his soft lips to John’s.

Whenever John had dreamed about kissing Harold, he had envisioned it to be like an exploding star, all consuming and fiery. He had expected it to overtake his senses and fry his brain cells. But this… this felt like a sip of coffee in the cold morning did. Like coming home after a hard day. Like the taste of his favorite food. Easy, comfortable, and like something he had been doing forever.

It didn’t burn. Instead, it thawed the frost in his soul, nurturing the dying flame of his passion to a vibrant glow. It healed.

Very soon, they parted. The chaste kiss made John want to chase its taste again. Chase the feeling of being alive. Of being whole. His hand had come to cup Harold’s face without his consent and his thumb was currently caressing his cheek lightly. There was a content dazed smile on Harold’s face that made John think that maybe he wasn’t alone in his feelings.

“Harold,” he breathed again, reverent.

Harold seemed to nuzzle into his palm, but his eyes were clearing. “I should go,” he said, without moving away even an inch.

They were both inebriated, and tired. He didn’t want Harold to go, but he did not want to start something on shaky ground like this either. Contentedly, he pressed his lips to Harold one more time, long and lingering before moving back slightly and touching foreheads.

“You should,” he agreed. Loathe as he was to admit it, Finch always knew best.

Still pliant, Harold nodded. They stayed like this for a few minutes- or it might be hours for all John knew, because time seemed to have stopped mattering right about now- before Harold pulled away reluctantly.

John sagged into the couch, watching Harold get up and gather his things. He got up to help, picking his coat from the stand and holding it behind Harold to wear. At the door, Harold hesitated, looking at John questioningly. John raised his hand to caress Harold’s cheek one more time, before saying,

“See you tomorrow Finch.”

Harold steeled himself and nodded sharply. “Tomorrow Mr. Reese.”

Like a smitten fool, he lingered at the doorway until Harold’s figure turned the corner, and then some more until his footsteps faded.

After cleaning up, he collapsed in bed and stared at the ceiling. Helplessly, he touched his lips, felt how they were still tingling; throbbing. He slept with a big smile on his face, and looked forward to the next day, wondering how he can coax another kiss from Harold, and another, and another.

Maybe bringing him his favorite donuts would help.

* * *

 

John went to the library with a skip in his step, green tea from Harold’s favorite vendor and donuts from the bakery he was fond of in his hand, hoping to find Harold in a good mood. Unfortunately, Harold-when-sober was completely different than Harold-while-drunk. A cold “Mr. Reese,” greeted him, and even though he took the tea with a thank you, he did not touch the box of desserts at all. John pretended that didn’t sting.

It was alright, he told himself. They had stopped the day before for this very reason. They didn’t want to have regrets, and it seemed like Harold already did regret the kiss. He was glad nothing more had happened. If Harold didn’t want this, he was going to accept the fact and try to forget about the kiss. What hurt more was the steel in Harold’s voice and the stiffness in his gait. For months now, the older man had been so relaxed in his company that the rigidness in his posture felt like a personal slight now.

They will get over it. Their work was far more important. They will find even footing again, and become tentative friends. It was useless to linger over the maybes.

John was fine.

Except he really wasn’t. His lips still prickled by the sense memory of Harold’s touch. His hand curled into a fist often when he saw a frown on Harold’s brow and he wanted to reach out to smooth it. Many times over the following weeks, he woke up in his bed, hard, with the vivid image of Harold pressing their lips together. When Harold bit his lower lip, John had to grind his teeth together to stop them from aching with the need to bite the lush softness of them himself.

Harold had made his choice and John was going to respect it.

Except, he sometimes saw Harold’s eyes linger of his face, his lips, when he thought John wasn’t paying attention. Sometimes he caught a look of longing in his eyes when John made a joke, for a split second, before he pulled back the mask of cold indifference. John couldn’t understand what that was about.

He almost convinced himself it was just his imagination. A fanciful illusion.

* * *

Reese came back to the library after giving their Number her new identity and seeing her off at the train station, and collapsed in his customary chair. He wondered it was too early to call it a day and head back to the loft. It was only four in the afternoon; Harold could call him if there was a new number.

Lazily, he stayed sprawled in his seat, and watched Harold type. If it wasn’t for the stiffness in his posture, John would doubt the man even knew of his presence. He tried to ignore the hurt that caused and focused on the rhythm of the keys, lulling him into a false sense of security.

A few minutes later, Harold got up and John instantly sat up straighter. Harold’s frame was rigid, that was usual after their misadventure in John’s loft, but something was different now. It wasn’t just stiff… it looked painful.

“Harold?” he asked, concerned.

“Go home Mr. Reese.” Finch could read him like a book- or a code he could decipher as second nature. He couldn’t have missed the implication in his voice, and he was dismissing it. It could only mean one thing.

“You’re hurt.” He concluded. It wasn’t a question.

Harold didn’t answer him, instead picked up the books and started walking towards the shelf they belonged on. John’s heart lurched again. His limp was prominent and there was a wince on Harold’s face with every slow painstaking step even though he was obviously trying to conceal it.

“What happened Harold? Did someone hurt you? Did you fall down? Do you need medicine?” He was on his feet already, stepping towards Harold and froze by the icy glare Harold threw his way.

“It is none of your concern Mr. Reese.” With that Harold turned back around and John wanted to laugh. Harold’s wellbeing was the only concern he had anymore. It was the axis around which his world revolved.

“If someone harmed you, I swear to God-.” There was violence in his tone that he didn’t even try to mask. Anyone who laid a hand on his boss would not receive any mercy from him.

“I said,” Harold’s tone was harsh and John flinched a little. “It’s none of your concern Mr. Reese. I would appreciate it if you go home and leave me alone. I will call you if there is a new number.”

A saner man would’ve taken the offer and fled. Harold sounded angry. Even though this was a question he had been wondering about a while earlier, he had no intention of leaving now. Not without knowing what was wrong, and what he could do to fix it.

He stayed quiet, and Finch huffed after a few moments and continued limping towards the shelves in the back. John followed quietly. He saw Harold trying to stretch on his toes to place a book on one of the upper shelves, and could feel the ache of Harold’s spine as if it was his own. Compulsively, he reached out and took the book from Finch’s outstretched hands and placed it on the shelf himself, standing in Harold’s space but not touching. Harold stayed frozen for a few moments before moving forward, in the barely there space of between himself and the bookcase. Taking it as a request to back off, John did.

Finch didn’t turn around.

“Please,” John asked, his voice a plea.

Harold visibly sagged. He rubbed his hand across his face, his side profile the only thing visible to John, and said, “It’s not what you’re thinking Mr. Reese.”

“You’re in pain Harold. It’s exactly what I am thinking.”

Harold spun around a little and waved one of his hands in exasperation. “Nobody harmed me if that’s what you’re concerned about. I was just-” obviously uncomfortable now, he faced away again, the tip of his ears a curious shade of pink. “-just exercising. Obviously I overestimated my _limitations_.” He said limitations like one might say murder. Or syphilis. As something disgusting and to be abhorred

John gaped.

“Exercise?” He couldn’t understand why Finch would ever want to? Did he think John wasn’t going to protect him, won’t be there to catch any bullet aimed for the man?

“Yes. Exercise Mr. Reese. For some people, doing five hundred crunches every day is not second nature.” Harold was jibing at how John expended his extra energy when there was no Number, but it still didn’t make any sense. Nor did the bitterness in Harold’s tone.

“Why?” he asked, his vocabulary regressing to single words now, too confused for higher brain functions to kick in.

“Why?” Harold snapped, spinning around and glaring. John had said something wrong along the way and he couldn’t understand what it was. And then Harold said, “ _Finch, If you’re gonna work all night, you should get some exercise.”_ His tone was different, low and sarcastic. Distantly, John found the phrase familiar, as well as the tone.

“What?” he asked intelligently.

“You said that Mr. Reese. When you first started working here. Don’t you remember?” Harold challenged, as if waiting for John to dispute it. Now, he remembered all of a sudden. He had found Harold sleeping on the table, sitting up with stiff back. Not used to showing concern, and startled by the amount of worry he felt for his employer so soon into their partnership, he had tried to give helpful advice as a joke, hoping the man would listen.

That amount of sitting was not good for a man with spinal injuries. Harold needed a reminder for that sometimes. Over the months following it, John had taken to getting the man to accompany him on the stakeouts and walks. Getting Bear helped. The dog provided the excuse for all the necessary stretches a man like Finch needed.

He couldn’t understand why he was bringing it up just now.

“I remember,” John placated. “That was a long time ago. What has that got to do with anything?”

Harold looked affronted again, “Really Mr. Reese? Just because we have shared a moment- a kiss- do you really expect me to believe you miraculously feel differently about my… physique.”

Wait what?

He opened his mouth to ask another inane question but Harold was on a roll now. “I know I am not much to look at. And my adventure with trying to exercise has proven how little I can even do about it. It was a foolish endeavor on my part and I would greatly appreciate it if you try and forget about it.”

_Oh._

Oh it was finally making sense.

Relief was the first emotion he felt, followed by overwhelming disbelief. Did Harold really think that…?

He laughed. It was part hysteria and part delight. Harold’s face got red, and he tried to turn away in indignation, mistaking the expressions for something else. John’s hand shot out and grasped his shoulder, stopping his retreat.

“Harold.” He laughed. “Do you really think I don’t find you attractive?” He couldn’t help chuckling at how absurd that statement sounded coming from his lips, but Harold’s face flushed harder, his eyes getting a little cold.

“There is no need to be cruel about this Mr. Reese. I know we are very different…”

John cut in. “I am not being cruel. I am laughing because of how utterly ridiculous that idea is.” His hand on Harold’s shoulder tightened a little and then he let go, stepping forward into Harold space.

“John. Stop!” Harold said, wrong footed and confused. John obeyed, because even with joy coursing through his veins because he finally _understood_ , he didn’t want to frighten Harold.

“Harold. If I found you any more attractive, I feel like I would burst into flames, and be consumed by that fire until even my ashes cannot be found.” There was no other way to explain what he felt about Harold. “As it is, I find it hard to believe that I am still walking around, still functioning, with you so close all the time.”

“What are you talking about?” Harold’s eyes were wide and his voice was small and John wanted to kiss him so badly, but he wanted to explain more.

“You’re beautiful Harold.”                                                                                                                                                           

“Don’t be ludicrous Mr. Reese, I can see a mirror.” Harold was clearly offended but John just shoot his head.

“You see yourself through the tint of your own bias. Try looking at yourself through my eyes. You’re beautiful. More than anyone else I have ever seen. And I accept that I am too tainted to touch something as pure as you, but to think that I don’t think you’re attractive enough,” John raised his hand to cup Harold’s face, and to his delight, Harold let him. “That’s an idea I can’t stand.”

Harold was sagging now, the strain in his posture getting lax, and John rubbed his thumb back and forth, relishing the permission to do it again.

“You can’t really believe that,” Harold said again, this time not as unconvinced as before though.

“Can’t I?” John laughed again, moving closer. Harold took a cautious step back and collided with the bookcase, trapped. He only had to stay a word to stop John though, so he wasn’t concerned. “Tell that to the times I have woken up desperate after dreaming of your fingers on my skin, your lips. How many times I have fantasized about your lovely voice whispering something other than information about the Number into my ears.” He murmured, wondering if he was going too far.

Harold looked at him in awe, and John wanted him to keep looking at him like that. So he continued, “Your eyes, I have often wondered how they would look in the morning when you just wake up. How your body would fit with mine as we lie down together, how warm it would be, and how soft.”

Harold made a sound of protest but John shook his head, caressing his cheek, the skin behind his ears. “I like it. I like knowing you have a body that’s lived in. I like your scars because they are a testament that you survived. I have hoped one day you will show them to me.”

“You’ve lost your mind.” Harold slumped back into the book shelf, blinking tiredly, and John took it as invitation to move closer, crowding Harold, placing one hand on the shelf behind him.

“Maybe I have,” John agreed, because if wanting Harold was irrational, then he was that, happily. “I just know that I have met so many different kinds of people in my life, some of them considered beautiful in all the traditional senses, and yet, I have never wanted anyone quite the way I want you. The way I yearn for you.” It was easy somehow, making himself vulnerable like this, in front of Harold. The man knew almost everything about him, and giving him this part of himself wasn’t as hard as he would’ve thought.

He could not allow Harold to go on believing he was flawed in any way. As he stared, Harold swallowed, his tongue poking out to lick his bottom lip and John groaned, closing his eyes.

“And your lips.” Because he could not stop his tongue now that it had started spilling the secrets, “the taste of them was like taking a shot of the most addictive drug. Almost sinful. Once was not enough and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, stop desperately aching for it. I want to kiss you Harold. All the time.”

He pressed their foreheads together and left the ball in Harold’s court now. He had no more to give except, “The only question is, do you want it as bad as I do?”

Harold, always the man of action rather than words, no matter how effusive his language was, replied with grabbing John’s shirt in his fist. For a moment John wasn’t sure whether he would push him away or bring him closer, but then Harold went on his tiptoes and slotted their lips together, and John drowned in the whimper that followed, but also soared...

When they parted for air, Harold chuckled breathlessly. John could see moisture gathering in his eyes though, and he wiped the stray tear away, kissing the wet salty skin afterwards.

“Dear God.” Harold hid his face into his chest, his arms going around John’s waist. “You really are insane.”

“Probably.” John nodded into Harold’s hair, burying his face in them and wrapping his arms securely around him.  Harold laughed. It was wet and heart felt. It sounded like a weight had lifted from his chest and John felt his own burdens lightening upon hearing it.

“Thank you.” Harold whispered, and John’s hold tightened, his chest bursting with emotions.

“Let’s go home Harold,” he implored, “Let me show you I meant every word I said. You don’t ever have to thank me.”

“Okay,” Harold whispered, and then leaned back a bit, John’s grip still like a vise around him, “Okay.” He looked into his eyes and nodded, and John could see the disbelief had faded a bit, replaced by hope.

Right then, John vowed to make sure Harold never entertained such doubts again.


End file.
